Time to Adjust
by JennyBunny65
Summary: Sequel to Application Process. Joining SHIELD seemed like a simple decision at the time but now Natasha isn't so sure it was the right choice. It's hard to adjust to communal living, communal eating, and (especially) communal bathrooms after being alone all her life. Fortunately - or maybe unfortunately - she has SHIELD's most illustrious agent Hawkeye to take her under his wing.
1. Chapter 1

**Authosr's Note: Here is the (probably not that) long awaited sequel to Application process! Another multi-chapter fic, centering around Natasha's struggle to adjust to her new life. It's rated T, because it's really not that bad and I don't want to scare off readers, but there are references to sex in here, as well as some generous amounts of swearing. The lyrics are from Lana Del Rey's song, "Ride." Enjoy and Review, please! P.S. - I don't own the Avengers.**

_I'm trying hard not to get into trouble, but I – _

_I got a war in my mind_

Natasha Romanoff – formerly Natasha Romanov (they'd insisted on _Americanizing_ the name at SHIELD, as if that would strengthen her loyalty to them), formerly Natalia Romanova, and currently SHIELD's favorite new asset – sat alone in the far back of the Helicarrier's mess hall. She cut into her chicken with slow, deliberate strokes of her knife, keeping her eyes glued to her plate, chewing methodically, and listening to the whispers.

They were always whispering about her.

When she had first come to SHIELD, she'd expected the gossip, the rumors, the hushed words concealed behind shaking hands when she walked past. She's shown up nearly a month after Clint Barton, one of SHIELD's top agents, had been sent to kill her. Walking off the jet of her own volition, unrestrained, she and Barton sporting matching shoulder wounds (his from a bullet, hers from an arrow)…well, she could understand the curiosity, the willingness to share any scrap of information, no matter how untrue it may be.

And then, instead of being arrested, tried, executed, imprisoned – she'd been made an agent. The whispers had followed her ever since.

"_She must have slept with Barton. Damn kid is always thinking with his dick_."

"_It's probably all a ruse. She's gonna blow this whole ship outta the sky, just you wait_."

"_Fury must be blackmailing her. There's no other reason she'd actually be willing to work for us_."

The rumors didn't bother her. She was the world's most fearsome assassin, had cheated death hundreds of times because heaven didn't want her and hell couldn't hold her, had slept with thousands of men and left them bleeding and broken in their beds without a backward glance. Petty gossip and superstitious agents that crossed themselves when she entered a room didn't faze her.

She just wished one of them had the balls to say something to her _face_.

They didn't though, none of them. Only three people had managed to address her directly since she'd arrived nearly a month ago: Coulson, who'd met her and Clint when they stepped off the plane, introduced himself, and immediately taken her to the Director; Director Fury himself, who'd negotiated her contract (she made twice as much as Agent Barton and directly achieved Level 8 clearance with her shiny new SHIELD badge); and Maria Hill, who'd shown her to her new quarters, given her a tour of the Helicarrier, and explained her training schedule.

"It's pretty straightforward. Usually new recruits train in large groups until their specific skill sets are determined; then they're sorted by area of proficiency into smaller groups and overseen by their probable handler in the field. You've made your expertise clear, so you move right to the next step: solo training. You'll follow this schedule for a month, with the Head Trainer of each station – sparring, self-defense, target practice, and so on – signing this sheet to evaluate your skill level. At the end of the month, you'll be assigned a permanent team and handler and be cleared to start field missions. Questions?"

Natasha appreciated her no-bullshit attitude, but was even more grateful that Hill looked her straight in the eye like she was any other agent, instead of averting her gaze in fear or disgust.

Barton would've counted, no doubt, among this small brave number, if the way he'd talked her ear off on the flight from Berlin to New York had been any indication. However, she hadn't seen the man since she'd arrived; after Coulson had dragged her off to Fury, Clint had left for a surveillance mission of indefinite length somewhere in Scandinavia. The gossips unanimously agreed that the only way their infamous _Hawkeye_ ended up with such a useless assignment was as punishment for his stunning insubordination.

Coulson, Fury, and Hill all ranked too high to frequently descend among the masses, so Natasha remained alone and isolated at SHIELD. Somehow, it was lonelier than her solo freelance days. Then, solitude had been necessary and inevitable. She'd maintained her distance and her anonymity to survive, unable to waste time with frivolous things like friendship and trust.

After only a few days at SHIELD, she was forced to admit that her current lone-wolf status wasn't entirely self-inflicted; had she actually wanted to reach out and make connections to these people, she'd find herself blocked by a wall of fear and suspicion and hate.

No one would spar with her; after breaking a few collarbones and landing more than one overly-confident misogynist in the infirmary, she was regarded as the menace of the mats and found herself without any willing partners. She ate alone, trained alone, showered alone, and returned to her room alone. Day after endless, dreary day. She wasn't even allowed to leave base (as it was difficult to do when "base" was a flying boot camp 50,000 feet in the air), and she missed the relative freedom of her freelance days.

Sometimes, she wasn't sure she coming to SHIELD had been the best option, and if she didn't still have debts to pay, she would've slipped away that first night.

She was torn suddenly from her maudlin thoughts when a lunch tray plopped on the table in front of the opposite seat, which was quickly filled by a broad torso in a tight black SHIELD t-shirt.

"Miss me?" grinned the oddly familiar face of Clint Barton.

* * *

"I didn't know you were back," she blurted, instantly shocked and frustrated by the outburst. It made her sound as though she'd been _waiting_ for him to come back or something. Which certainly hadn't been the case at all. Not even close.

"Got in about two minutes ago. Thought I'd grab some lunch before heading off to debrief."

"I don't think that's correct protocol. You're setting a bad example for the trainee."

Barton huffed a small laugh at that, twisting the cap off a bottle of water. "Something tells me you're not the type to care much about protocol, Natasha."

"It's Agent Romanoff," she corrected automatically, before realizing she liked the sound of her name coming from his mouth. It was simple, familiar, and attested to an intimacy she hadn't found with anyone at SHIELD. All the same, she couldn't afford to let her defenses down, not yet, not with anyone.

He shrugged, allowing her the space she demanded, and she felt a prick of annoyance at his easy deference. Shouldn't he be running in terror lest his presumptions had offended her? The _last_ man who had presumed so far as to sit at her table certainly had.

"What are you eating?" she asked suddenly, her attention caught by the tantalizing smell of Barton's dinner.

"It's a couscous-stuffed chicken breast with feta and tomato. Want some?"

He slid his plate towards and she pushed it back immediately. "No." Curiosity getting the best of her, she added, "I didn't see that option on the menu."

"I made some and froze it before I left for Berlin. You know, you don't have to eat the slop they have here. Each room has a kitchenette for a reason."

She snorted at the frilly word coming from such an undeniably masculine creature. Realizing he was serious, she quirked her eyebrow questioningly. Barton shrugged.

"My mom taught me to cook when I was a kid. It's just kind of grown into a hobby since then, because it's fun and has a reward of delicious food at the end."

She glanced down at her own plain chicken breast, which paled in comparison with Barton's supper. She had never learned to cook while in the Red Room (it had been seen as a useless and superfluous skill), and her career choices since leaving hadn't offered many opportunities to learn.

Barton glanced at her, smiled slightly, and added, "I'll make enough for two tomorrow. I hate to think of you living on SHIELD-issued sludge forever."

Natasha stood abruptly. She didn't know what Barton was trying to pull, exactly, but she wasn't interested in his – what, exactly? Pity? Guilt? Did he feel obligated to treat her this way since he had been the one to bring her in?

"Goodnight, Agent Barton." Without a backward glance, Natasha strode out of the dining hall, dumping her half-eaten dinner as she went.

She returned to her room, surveyed the kitchenette critically for a moment, before snapping off the light and crawling into bed.

Alone again.

**A/N: Just two more quick notes. One, I am leaving on a second mini-vacation to visit my family a week from Friday, so I will TRY to have the whole story posted by then. If not - well, no laptop=no story=no updates. Two, the song (whose lyrics will start every chapter) is really a beautiful piece of art. For some reason, I really identify both this song and its artist with Natasha. Most of LDR's songs have a kind of haunted, jaded hope to them that I think would really relate to Natasha. Sorry for the too-long note!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Here is Chapter 2! Thanks to Rileyyy and AvengerRedHuntress for reviewing the first chapter. Whole story is 4 chapters (I know, all my stories are pretty short) and should be posted within the next week or so. Lyrics are, again, from Lana Del Rey's "Ride" which everyone should listen to. Reviews are love!**

_Dying young and I'm playing hard_

_That's the way my father made his life an art_

The next morning, Clint awoke earlier than usual; he had heard through the grapevine that Natasha was the first person in the mess hall in the morning, as well as the first person to leave for training. He strode down the hall of the Helicarrier with a sense of purpose, tightly gripping the clear Tupperware container in his hands.

Once in the mess hall, it wasn't hard to find Natasha – she was sitting in the same table as last night, and everyone was giving her a wide berth. She was reading the _New York Times_ and sipping coffee while a bowl of oatmeal cooled, untouched, next to her. Perfect.

Without hesitation, Clint plopped down in the seat across from her. "Good morning, sunshine," he chirped, ignoring the acidic glare she leveled at him over her coffee cup. "I brought you a present."

"How nice." Her voice was dry and flat; he hadn't realized it last night, but she spoke without even a hint of her old Russian accent. It made him sad, in a way. She was trying harder than anyone probably realized to fit in at SHIELD.

Natasha went back to her newspaper, not even a hint of curiosity evident. He was about to unveil his grand surprise when he caught Rebecca Nelson's eye across the room. She was absolutely staring, eyes wide and mouth gaping, a latte steaming in her hand.

Clint glanced at her before staring pointedly at the seat next to him. She shook her head vehemently.

_Oh, come on. She's not going to bite_, Clint mouthed at her.

_Says you! Anderson was in the clinic for three days after _he_ tried to sit there_, she replied in kind.

_Anderson is an ass. And he only wanted to get in her pants. Neither of those apply to us. You'll be fine_.

_I'm not coming _near_ her when she has access to a knife._

_It's a butter knife!_

_I don't care._

"Have you managed to glare your girlfriend into sitting here yet, or should I vacate the area?" Natasha didn't emerge from behind the paper, and Clint wondered how long she'd been watching him and Becks. He sent one last glower in Rebecca's direction before turning back to Natasha.

"Oh, she's not my girlfriend. And forget about her – that just means more for us!" With a flourish, he whipped the plastic lid off his container. Natasha peered disdainfully at its contents.

"Are those – did you make pancakes, Barton?"

"Yes, indeed – I even put blueberries in them because I've heard you eat fruit at every meal."

"When it's available," she agreed, looking at the sad brown bowl of oatmeal next to her. She looked suspiciously back at Clint's surprise.

"C'mon – you know you want one." He waved the container enticingly under her nose. Rebecca, overhearing their conversation, reluctantly sat next to Clint. Clint hid a smile; blueberry pancakes where Rebecca's kryptonite, and he wasn't above taking shameless advantage of that.

Urged on by Clint's sharp elbow to her side, Becks mumbled, "Hello, Agent Romanoff. I'm Agent Nelson, but you can call me Rebecca."

"It's…a pleasure…to meet you," replied Natasha stiffly, an odd expression on her face. Clint realized she looked uncomfortable – he wondered if she'd really talked to anyone since he'd left for his probation assignment.

Clint decided to break the ice, as he was wont to do in uncomfortable situations – he'd had enough awkward silences to last a lifetime, thank you very much. He knew what it was like to have people so afraid of you they couldn't look you in the eye, much less carry on a conversation.

"So, Natasha, Becks told me you're positively terrifying on the sparring mats." Becks shot him a half-pissed, half-panicked look at that comment, but Natasha looked almost _flattered_. He could've sworn her lips tilted faintly upwards.

"Agent Romanoff," she corrected sternly, before adding in a slightly less defensive voice, "and I suppose you could say that. Certainly there's no one left willing to spar with me."

"I'll do it," Clint offered bluntly, ignoring the emphatic headshake threatening to topple Rebecca's head right off her shoulders.

Natasha looked vaguely excited at the prospect. "Main gym? Nine o'clock?"

"Sure, sounds good," Clint agreed easily. That look of anticipation in her eyes – well, he would've agreed to three in the morning. She was smiling a little now, a real smile, and her whole face glowed luminescent like the moon. He was struck for the second time by how beautiful she was – when she wanted to be.

"Now, he continued, "about these pancakes…"

But looking up, he saw Natasha had already left, and Becks was staring at him with something akin to pity.

Natasha was waiting for him 20 minutes before their scheduled match. She told herself it was to reserve a sparring ring, but she knew that wasn't true; she only had to approach a ring to clear it of all participants and spectators.

No, Natasha was there because she was _excited_. She hadn't sparred in so long – she hadn't a real competitor in even longer. Even when she first came to SHIELD, her only sparring partners were men too "chivalrous" to put up a decent fight, men who only wanted to get their hands on her body, men who wanted the glory of beating the Black Widow. None of them stood a chance.

But Cli – she caught herself – but _Agent Barton_ was different. She had seen real challenge in his eyes, and she had been around SHIELD long enough to know he never backed down from a competition. She would be bouncing on the balls of her feet, if she was a child with no self-control. As it was, she casually stretched out on the mats, pretending she wasn't watching the door with a sniper's concentration.

There was a buzz of anticipation in the air – the story had spread through the Helicarrier quickly, and she saw more than one person in the unusually crowded gym surreptitiously watching the door. Natasha even thought she heard whispers of a betting pool floating around, but she couldn't be bothered to care; her attention was consumed by the upcoming match.

When he arrived, it was with none of the swagger of her previous partners, just an easygoing stroll paired with a toothy grin. He looked excited too, Natasha was surprised to realize.

The match started the second he stepped into the ring. She rose sinuously off the ground, snapping out a kick in the same motion. Barton dodged, returning her attack with a swift left hook that nearly grazed her cheek as it flew past. Her expression shifted to a feral grin, and his face matched hers, his smile still holding more playfulness than hers ever could.

She lost herself to the meditation of fighting. It was like a dance, sparring with Barton, and the part of her mind not actively engaged in the fight was wistfully recalling a different dance, across a stage in Russia, where only the silken tips of her pointe shoes touched the ground and the audience showered her with roses.

This crowd shifted restlessly, circling the mat hungrily, whispering as they went.

"Think she's gonna kill him?"

"Ten bucks says he'll end up in the clinic."

"I bet they look exactly the same when they're fucking."

Sweat clung to Natasha's forehead, causing the few stray hairs floating around her face to adhere to the damp skin. Clint's hair was dewy with perspiration.

They were almost evenly matched. She ducked when he swung his fists, and he dodged when her legs snapped out at him. Finally, she managed to hook a foot around his ankle, knocking him to the ground. She clambered on top of him, twisting his arm just short of popping the shoulder out of place.

The crowd fell completely silent, wondering, perhaps, just how ruthless she really was.

"Alrighty kids, clear it out. Other agents need to train too, you know." Coulson's voice broke through the quiet, and Natasha released Baton's arm, standing quickly. She was breathing heavily, and not only from the fight.

A year ago, she wouldn't have hesitated to completely immobilize a downed man. Hell, last week she still would've yanked his arm out of its socket. It's not like it would've been fatal.

But there was something about Cli – Agent Barton…

Barton sprung lightly to his feet, grinning ear to ear. "Same time tomorrow?" he asked, sounding almost hopeful.

Natasha took a sip from her water to hide her smile as she nodded.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Hello there! This is the second to last chapter of this story and yes, the next story is in the works. On the other hand, I'm leaving for a cross-country roadtrip soon (who doesn't love long hours in the car with extended family?) so I probably won't start posting that one 'til I get back. Lyrics are still from "Ride," and you should still go listen to it. Here's where the warnings for things of a sexual nature kick in, so be warned! Reviews are my new addiction (not that I was addicted to anything before but...yeah..)!**

_I'm tired of feeling like I'm fucking crazy –_

_I'm tired of driving 'til I see stars in my eyes _

Natasha didn't have _habits_ – habits suggested normalcy. Predictability. And if there's one thing a master assassin should always keep in mind, it's that being predictable will get you killed.

Schedules, on the other hand…well, they say that sloppy habits breed sloppy minds. So having a set schedule wasn't really a problem. In fact, Natasha almost took comfort in the stability of her day-to-day routines. She woke up, ate, trained, ate again, trained some more, showered, and went back to bed. Sure, it was monotonous, but the man named Coulson and sometimes even Hill or Fury had started observing her now, and she was confident she'd be cleared for missions before long.

No, the most disturbing part of her new schedule wasn't the uniformity – it was Clint Barton's prevalence in said schedule. She woke and ate…with Barton. Went to training and sparred…with Barton. Ate lunch with Barton. Went to the shooting range with Barton. She hadn't started showering with Barton yet, but Natasha was afraid that it was only a matter of time.

It wasn't that she especially enjoyed Barton's company, particularly in the morning (she'd always thought "morning people" were myths until she met him). It was just that as far as friendship was concerned, he was essentially her only option. Occasionally they were joined on the range by his friend Rebecca, and the agent usually ate meals with them as well – Clint shamelessly bribed her with his cooking – but Natasha knew Rebecca wouldn't have reached out to her without Barton's prompting.

She didn't know why Barton was so damn friendly all the time, but she had a pretty good idea. She was given the chance to test her hypothesis one night, a month after Barton returned from Denmark, when she found herself alone with him in his room for dinner.

It was mean, Clint knew, trying to force someone out of their shell. But then again, he knew Natasha wasn't shy, only stubborn. Well, Clint was stubborn too, but more than that, he was determined. He felt sort of bad about dragging her away from her home to SHIELD, where she was essentially a pariah. He didn't feel too guilty, since all she had been doing over in Europe was killing for money, but still…He wanted her to see that defecting was a good idea. He wanted her to like SHIELD. Hell, if he was honest with himself, he wanted her to like him as well. He didn't live full-time on the Helicarrier, and aside from Becks, he didn't have many friends onboard. Natasha was interesting and funny and charming – though only the latter two when she wanted to be. He saw himself in her, a little bit; she was the same scared kid he'd been when he first joined SHIELD all those years ago. Only she didn't have a Coulson, so she had to settle for a Clint.

It didn't help that she was so damn determined to evade friendship. He made food for her, changed his training schedule to match hers (though when she asked, he claimed it was pure coincidence), and invited her to hang out in the rec room with the other agents. She firmly and somewhat snobbishly declined each offer.

If that wasn't an excuse for drastic action, Clint didn't know what was.

So he maybe kind of, sort of hacked Coulson's computer. He wasn't _prying_, really – he just needed some basic information. Like, for example, food allergies. And then he just needed some authorized access to the dining hall menu. A few quick changes and ta-da! He had bona fide reason for Natasha to accept his dinner invitation.

"They're making mushroom risotto, cream of mushroom soup, _and_ stuffed mushrooms all on the same night?" questioned Natasha scathingly the next morning, observing the dinner menu as she stood in line for her daily bowl of cereal. "Are they completely insensitive to agents with mushroom allergies?"

"Well," said Clint with forced nonchalance, "it's not a very common allergy. I don't think anyone here is allergic."

"_I _am," grumbled Natasha sullenly, ladling some strawberries on her Cheerios.

"They plan the dinner menu way in advance," Clint quickly explained, "so they know what to stock up on when the Helicarrier docks. And you're a fairly recent addition…they didn't plan on taking new allergies into account. Probably, I mean."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "I'm sure they'll have something for me to eat – there's usually salad at dinner."

"You can't just eat a salad after training all day!" Clint's protest was louder than he intended, and he lowered his voice as the he and Natasha walked back to their normal table. Thankfully, Becks wasn't there yet. "You need your protein! Tell you what," he added slowly, as though he was considering an idea, "why don't you come to my room for dinner? I have a couple of steaks in my freezer – " he'd had to bribe a Quinjet pilot to buy them on his last trip out, but she didn't need to know that "– and I'll make dinner for us. No mushrooms, no bland salads – just good ol' American cuisine."

She appraised him carefully, and he set his in what hopefully looked to be an impassive mask. He had no idea why he was so nervous, but his damn hands were shaking as he waited. He felt like the Mathlete that asked the head cheerleader to prom.

Natasha sighed, suddenly looking disappointed and tired. "Sure. Normal dinner time, then?"

"Sounds good! See ya then, Natasha!" He bounded happily out of his seat – he had to clean his room, which would doubtless take the rest of the day.

"It's Agent Romanoff," she muttered to his retreating back, and Clint hid a smile.

She had expected it, really. No good deed goes unpunished, and all that crap. She just wished he could've waited 'til the Helicarrier landed, preferably near Bendels. She didn't have any of the outfits she usually reserved for this kind of thing – only workout clothes and pajamas, and a few pairs of shoes from her personal collection she'd brought with her. She felt safer, more confident in her seductive clothes, the slinky dresses and tight skirts like armor to her. Still, she could make do with a tight black t-shirt and yoga pants, if she must. It'd look odd wearing an evening gown around the Helicarrier, anyway.

She made sure that her bra and underwear matched before she got dressed, picking out a stereotypical red-and-black-silk set apathetically.

When she got to Barton's room, she couldn't deny that it smelled wonderful. She wasn't sure how she felt about "good ol' American cuisine," but even she could appreciate a good steak. His bunker had the same layout as her own, though slightly bigger; it was just as impersonal and sparsely decorated as well. She wondered if he preferred the Spartan décor or if he simply didn't spend much time on the Helicarrier.

"You came!" Barton walked towards her, looking ridiculous and endearing – er, no, just ridiculous – in the "Kiss the Cook" apron around his waist. He seemed genuinely glad she was there, as well as a little surprised. Natasha wondered if he was afraid she'd realized his true intentions. Still, it'd been awhile since someone had been so happy to see her, so she smiled cautiously back at him.

Dinner was delicious. She almost regretted turning down his offers of food before because, damn, the man could cook. He'd made twice-baked potatoes to go with the steaks, and she wondered if he hadn't stolen them from the dining hall; fresh vegetables didn't really store well for months at a time, after all.

Barton talked all through dinner, encouraging her responses but seeming nonplussed when she chose to remain silent. He just read her body language, changing topics when her silent cues informed him she didn't want to talk about something.

It was almost like a date, and Natasha might have enjoyed herself if she didn't know what was coming next.

She liked sex, for the most part. It was fun, it felt good, and it was pretty handy way to release stress. Still, she hated having to sleep with people for her job; no matter how great the sex was, she always felt guilty and dirty and used afterwards. The Red Room tried to discourage these feelings, tried to teach the girls to brush off this particular job quirk as nothing more involved than a handshake. But ever since Natasha had struck out on her own and gained the freedom of her body, she could never quite look at sex for a mission the same.

She'd hoped to be done with all that when she came to SHIELD, but she should've known it wouldn't be that easy. She had one last debt to repay.

Barton asked if she wanted to stick around and watch a movie or something, and she agreed – the flash of pure shock that crossed his face almost made her laugh. They sat on the tiny couch in front of the tinier TV – though as Natasha didn't' have a television in her room at all, she didn't think she should complain – and Barton flipped through the channels lazily. Now was her chance to make a move.

She reached over and tugged the remote out of Barton's hand, dropping it on the floor. When he turned to look at her, confused and wary, she kissed him full on the mouth.

He tasted like steak sauce and the stubble just around his mouth scratched her slightly. He seemed too surprised to move for a minute, but when she brought her hands up to twist in his hair, he responded, opening his mouth and running his hands across her back.

"Nat – Natasha, what are you doing?" He broke away from her mouth with a gasp, and she used the moment of hesitation to clamber into his lap. Barton's hair stuck up in uneven spikes from her hands, and his lips were red and his eyes were round and awestruck. He looked…so innocent. So naive. She wondered if he was a virgin, but doubted that was the case. Maybe he just didn't get around much – which meant she'd have to do all the work. She bit back a sigh and leaned into him again.

Holy hell, the man sure kissed like he had a lot of experience. He slipped his tongue into her mouth, soft and gentle, while his hands kneaded her hips. She relaxed against him and he pulled away again.

"I just…I guess I don't understand why you're doing this all of a sudden." He explained, frowning slightly at her. "I mean, I wasn't allowed to call you by your first name 10 minutes ago."

"I repay my debts," she purred, hoping to silence his protests, her fingers playing in the soft fabric of his shirt. He stiffened underneath her (not in the way she'd been expecting) and ducked away from her mouth as she leaned forward once more.

"Wait. Natasha, wait, dammit. Are you saying – you mean – you're sleeping with me because you feel like you owe me something?" He pushed her off his lap at that, standing up so that she had no choice but to get to her feet as well.

"I..." Natasha wrinkled her forehead in confusion. "You spared my life. I don't like to be in someone else's debt."

"So what, you just sleep with them? That's pretty messed up. And you know, prostitution is kind of illegal here."

His words stung. "I'm not a prostitute."

He snorted, running his hands through his hair, getting angry. "Sure. You just have sex with people in exchange for favors. Completely different."

"I have yet to experience a good deed done with no expectation of payment," snapped Natasha. "You can't truly think I'm so naïve as to believe I owe you nothing for saving my life."

Barton's face softened slightly, and his expression was just another twist of the knife. It was full of pity, and Natasha couldn't bear to be pitied by anyone. "That's what makes a good deed so good though, Natasha. If everyone was rewarded for doing the right thing, no one would do wrong and it'd be a better world. But kindness doesn't work that way. If you try to do the right thing to get something in return, you're just being selfish. And your good deed loses some of its value. It's gotta come from the heart."

Natasha's cheeks were flaming. She couldn't remember ever blushing before, but then, she'd never been turned down before either. "So I'm just supposed to pretend I don't owe my life to you?" she snapped defensively, "That does not sit well with me."

"You don't owe me anything, Natasha."

"Its Agent Romanoff," she growled, suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to flee. She walked stiffly to his door, ignoring his half-articulated objection. Before she stepped into the hall, she turned and looked him straight in the eye, unwilling to let him see the feelings of vulnerability he'd sent tumbling through her. "Thank you for the dinner. Enjoy the rest of your night." She didn't look back once on the way to her room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Hello, good people of the Internet! This is the last chapter of Time to Adjust, but fear not! The next story is already started and will probably be a little longer (though I kind of like to idea of keeping them all the same length...)! However, as I have mentioned, I'll be off the grid for a few days, catching up with some distant relatives (yay?) and won't start posting for at least a week or so. Thanks for sticking with the story, and enjoy! Please review and, while you review, listen to "Ride" by Lana Del Rey, because that's where all the lyrics of this story came from.**

_Don't break me down_

_I've been travelin' too long_

_I've been trying too hard_

_With one pretty song_

One of the problems with living on a giant flying hunk of metal was that going outside was kind of impossible. That meant that hiding spots were limited to the few open access areas – dining hall, rec room, and such – and the dorms.

Not, of course, that Natasha was _hiding_. If she really wanted to hide, no one on the carrier could find her, all their technology and spies be damned. No, Natasha was just cooling down, taking a lap (so to speak) while she got her mind right again.

Dinner had ended hours ago, so she slipped into the now-vacant dining hall, sitting at her old table out of habit. A dangerous move, as prey should never be predictable.

Not that Barton was hunting her. He probably hadn't bothered to come look for her at all. What did he care if she was confused and angry and maybe even a little hurt? He didn't want to sleep with her. So what the hell _did_ he want?

Still, she didn't feel safe enough to go back to her room – for "security reasons," Barton and 4 other senior agents, including Coulson, had the access code to her door. And surely, if Barton bothered to look, that'd be the first place he would go.

So she'd stay here, in the dark and silence of the dining hall. Just sit and wonder how she's managed to misread the signs so thoroughly.

Cli - _Barton_ had been kind and attentive, trying to involve her in SHIELD life, making her food and forcing other people on her. He called her by her first name when he thought she wouldn't notice, but grinning unapologetically when she scolded him for it. He teased her, baited her, tricked her into opening up without realizing it. Natasha could almost say that Barton was her…friend.

And heaven knows Natasha had never had a friend before.

She dropped her head into her hands, suddenly ashamed of herself. Had the Red Room really taken so much from her? She thought she'd escaped no worse for wear, maybe more paranoid, maybe with looser morals than most, but still human. And yet, she couldn't handle even the most basic human interaction like Barton or Nelson could. She didn't socialize, didn't bond with others, had no inside jokes. For the first time in her life, Natasha wondered if she really was still human. Perhaps, thanks to the Room and her life, she'd become something…less.

Clint stood in the doorway to the dining hall, silently observing Natasha. He'd been planning to approach her, talk to her, let her see he wasn't upset or offended or anything. Now, watching her shudder slightly with her face in her hands, he hesitated. He knew enough of Natasha to know she wouldn't appreciate being seen while vulnerable.

Of course, he should also know enough to realize he couldn't sneak up on her.

"What do you want, Barton?"

He thought of joking, "Not you," but decided she'd be more insulted than amused.

Instead he slipped into the room and murmured, "I just want to talk."

Good, Clint, slow steps, no sudden movements…he approached her the same way he would a skittish horse or tense lion, and he'd had his fair share of dealing with both at the circus.

"There's nothing to talk about," Natasha said flatly, looking up at him. Her face, like her voice, was blank. "You've made your views on the matter clear. As have I. Therefore, further discussion would be pointless."

"If you really believed that, you wouldn't sitting here, alone, in the dark. Talk to me, Natasha."

"It's Agent Romanoff," she snapped, a tiny spark of anger finally breaking through her carefully controlled mask. It was as good a place as any to start.

"Why, though? Why can't I call you Natasha? You're not older than me, you don't rank higher than me, so it's not a respect thing. I've told you countless times to call me Clint, but you don't. You won't address Nelson as 'Rebecca' or, heaven forbid, 'Becks,' and I haven't seen you talk to any other agents since I've been back. Why is that, huh? Is the famous Black Widow _afraid_ – "

She stood up suddenly, her chair slamming to the floor. The bang echoed loudly in the quiet of the room.

"Because it's safer this way. It's a security measure, keeping people away, so they can't use you or be used against you." A flash of pain flared in her eyes briefly, and he wondered who she was thinking of – who made her eyes softer and her face tender and her lips tremble slightly. Then her expression hardened again. "I've learned long ago that the only one you can ever depend on in this world is yourself. People who think otherwise are just fooling themselves, and will continue to do so until they end up with a knife in their back."

"But that's not true," Clint argued, panicking just a little. The words sounded so eerily close to something Barney had said, deep in the past…right before he'd tried to kill Clint.

"I haven't been proven wrong yet."

"Because you won't let anyone in to try. Kindness isn't a weakness, it isn't a liability. Being able to love and trust and form friendships is what separates the good guys from the bad guys."

He instantly regretted his words when he saw her reaction: her eyebrows pulled together, her lips flattened into a straight line, and she flinched softly.

"Then maybe I wasn't cut out to be a good guy."

"Bullshit," Clint said vehemently, starting to get angry himself. He knew what she must be feeling, knew what he had felt when it was his first time on the "good side." And he'd hated the stubborn, angry bastard he'd been back then, self-destructive and self-loathing. He wouldn't let anyone go through that. He wouldn't let Natasha hate herself. "Being good is a choice, it's always a choice, even when it seems like you have no control over your life. And you've spent your whole life answering to a master and letting them make choices for you that you didn't even see the freedom you had. And now you're safe to act on that freedom, and you're scared because you know there will be consequences that you can't blame on anyone but yourself."

His tirade was met with cool, stony silence, and he was almost starting to get uncomfortable – he would outwait just about anyone, but Natasha sure gave him a run for his money – when she spoke.

"I've never known any other way. It can be…intimidating."

"Then let me help you. I don't want sex, I don't want anything from you except to be your friend."

She appraised him slowly, eyes roaming over him, before she nodded. "I think that could be acceptable."

She picked the chair up from the floor and started walking away, turning at the door. "Sparring tomorrow? Nine, main gym?"

Clint grinned. "You're on, Romanoff."

She nodded again, started walking again, stopped again. This time, she didn't turn around as she said "Good night, Clint."

"Good night, Natasha."


End file.
